


pain

by youngavengers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Grieving John, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid John, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, Pain, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:24:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngavengers/pseuds/youngavengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a lot of pain in his life pre-Sherlock Holmes. It all starts again one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for this it's just the Reichenfeels.  
> 

John Watson was a doctor. He knew pain when he saw it. He'd studied it, treated it, felt it. Pain was everywhere, every time. He and pain were well acquainted. One time when he was still a child, he had fallen and hurt his knee, crying as it bled. It stung. He remembered his mother picking him up and comforting him, ceasing the waterfall of his tears. She cleaned the wound even as he wailed about how much it stung, but she kissed him gently on the checks and told him how brave he was. He didn't mind too much after that. All he minded was the feel of her arms as he snuggled into their warmth, seeking reassurance that she would stay.

That had been one of the last times she held him in her arms.

There had been another time involving Harry. They had been playing - one of the rare occurrences after their mother's funeral. He had been climbing a tree, reaching out to grab another branch. But he'd missed and he'd fell, breaking his arm in two places. The pain was awful. Harry had been crying as she rushed down, sobbing and apologizing. He wasn't sure what she was saying, because he had been almost incoherent himself, trying to bear the pain. He'd gritted his teeth tight - tight as he could - and told Harry to get help. Harry just hugged him tight and screamed at the top of her lungs for help. Silly girl. No one would hear. But somehow, there was help. By then, he had been almost unconscious. They'd taken him to the hospital. Everything there - from the towering doctors in white coats to the big machines (rather primitive technology, now that he thought of it) - made him feel oppressed. He had started choking, his chest hurting like hell and feeling constricted.

The last thing he remembered was asking Harry to stay with him so he wouldn't be alone. Perhaps he had thought her presence would make everything more bearable. He asked her to hold his hand tight.

She did.

The war. That was fairly recent. He had been so eager to fight for his country, proud of being able to defend her. He would be honored for his efforts and given a grand pension. He would fall in love. He'd granted a nice house. He had envisioned it all.

It had only taken one bullet to shatter that dream.

He recalled another soldier dragging him to safety as the searing pain in his shoulder spread rapidly, threatening to engulf him and drag his consciousness into an abyss of darkness. He recalled voices - _wake up, you have to wake up_ \- urging him on, back to life. He could remember a doctor treating his wounds amidst the burning heat of the desert as he was drenched in sweat. When he was sent back to London, he was jobless, limping, and almost broke. Why me? He asked himself every single day. Why not another soldier? He had a new routine now - wake up, think about the pain, take out his gun, put back the gun, sleep. When he remembered, he inserted eating between all those. He hated his life. Especially his limp - he was crippled.

Oh yes, John Watson survived, but he kept the pain with him, tucking it away deep inside as it lay dormant - waiting, just waiting for more.

Then he met _Sherlock Holmes_.

Sherlock, the one who observed everything, deduced something, and was almost always right. Sherlock was cold and indifferent to others, insensitive and uncaring, cruel to the world. But never to John. Never. Their friendship bloomed from Case One. There were disagreements, but as always they were resolved in the end. Sherlock got rid of his limp. Sherlock was his best friend. There was no pain with Sherlock. Only the beautiful memories.

Sherlock was cold and indifferent to others, insensitive and uncaring, cruel to the world. _John loved him_.

Now John was looking up at Sherlock, phone in hand, heart pounding incessantly. The pain. Back again. He could feel it springing upon him almost vicariously - it'd been repressed for so long. _Too long_. Fear was woven within every thread of it, creating a deadly combination that turned his hands and legs to jelly. He didn't know how he was still standing. Maybe it was the sight of that lone figure teetering precariously at the edge of the roof. _Maybe_.

John wants to _scream_. At Sherlock, at himself, at a stranger, anything that could alleviate his anguish. He can distantly hear Sherlock telling him that _that was what people did_. They _left notes_. Notes. Would that stop the pain? _No._ Would that stop a man from jumping? _No._ Could that make up for his best friend? Take him out on long chases? Laugh at crap telly with him? Look at him with blue eyes filled with smug mischief? Love him? _No. Never._ Why would Sherlock do this to him? _It's all a magic trick,_ says Sherlock, and John's heart is on fire, burning and writhing in agony. Impossible. His breaths come out as ragged gasps. He doesn't believe that. Sherlock is not a fake. In his mind, he sees the times they have spent together, and he knows that Sherlock is lying. Lying to him. A liar. Just like him. The thought hurts even more. John is sure he will break in half from the agony he's in. He needs to sit down. Have some tea. Later, his mind tells him. Get Sherlock to safety first.

John takes a step forward, wincing as Sherlock tells him to _stay_. He is dying on the inside over and over, and he's not even the one on the roof. It is torture by Sherlock, cruel and unmerciful. Is this how the rest of the world usually feels? He doesn't know. He doesn't remember anything in his life as painful as this. He doesn't because there is nothing as painful. This is. His best friend, willingly on the verge of death, and he has stand there and watch. How ironic. His old enemy - pain - confronting him on the battleground of Sherlock's life. John has no way of winning. He has no defense. Sherlock took down those barricades long ago, and now he is vulnerable.

John had expected the pain to come when he was on his deathbed, not so soon. He'd thought that life had finally stopped hurting those close to him. What would happen if Sherlock jumped? No, John wouldn't let him. But what if? All those times he there was pain, there'd been someone to pick him up, keep him going. His mother, his sister, a fellow soldier. He'd always thought Sherlock would be one of them - to pick him up and piece him back together just like before. He should have made Sherlock promise. _He should have. He needs more time, he needs to tell Sherlock so much, he needs-_  But no, now there would be no one, no one could heal him like Sherlock. It _wouldn't be the same_. From now to the end the pain would be his to bear, and his alone. Sherlock had to live. He had to. John had never imagined this. He'd thought that he and Sherlock had forever. He'd thought-

Too late.

 _Goodbye,_ says Sherlock, and steps off the roof, the platform connecting him to his life. John's heart drops with him. Neither his heart nor Sherlock will ever have the ability to feel anymore.

And he finally realizes that he will never be able to escape the pain again.


End file.
